The Compromise
by allthingsdecent
Summary: A total reboot of Three Stories. After his surgery, House grows closer to Cuddy.


**A reboot of the events of Three Stories. If you're so inclined (ahem, Frenchie) you can see this as pre-show canon. However, I prefer to see it as a total AU version of how House and Cuddy get together **_**for reals**_**. - atd**

She had sent Stacy home for some rest—"it's going to be a long night" she assured her—and that was, of course, the exact moment that House decided to wake up from his coma.

His eyes fluttered a bit. He groaned. And the first thing he did was reach for his leg.

Cuddy marveled at his presence of mind—he was barely conscious and yet he remembered his leg.

"I have a leg," he said, out loud, to no one in particular.

"Yes you do," she said, checking his vital signs on the monitor.

"Good," he said. "Legs are good."

"Do you know where you are, Dr. House?"

"A really shitty hospital that tried to kill me," House said.

"He's back," she said, with a slight smile. "How do you feel?"

"Umm, groggy. And my leg hurts like hell."

"That's to be expected," Cuddy said.

"Really?" House said. "Cause I kinda figured I'd either be dead or pain free."

It was at that moment that he noticed the new bandages on his leg.

"Why the hell has my leg been re-dressed?" he said.

Cuddy hesitated. She had hoped to have Stacy here for this conversation.

"We did a … second surgery."

"What do you mean you did a second surgery?" House spat out. His neck was turning red. "I didn't approve a second surgery."

"No. . .your medical proxy did. . ."

"I wasn't dead! I was in a coma. A coma that I requested!" He was shouting now.

"Dr. House, calm down," she said.

"What did you do to me?" he screamed.

He was yelling so loudly that two orderlies came in from the hall.

"Everything okay, Dr. Cuddy?" one said, looking at House.

"Yeah, everything's fine," she said.

House continued to stare at her after they were gone

"What the fuck did you do to me?" he said.

"We removed the dead muscle," Cuddy said.

His mouth dropped open. His face went ashen.

"So this excruciating pain I feel. . .I'm going to have it for the rest of my life?"

He suddenly seemed more scared than angry.

"Not necessarily," she said, reassuringly. "You're still very recently post-op. The pain is to be expected. I believe it will subside significantly—and that you might even be pain free."

"But there's a chance I'll always feel this way," he said. It was a statement of fact. They both knew it to be true.

"Let's not rush to any conclusions," she said.

"I need more morphine," he said, resting his head back on the pillow. "It's killing me." All the fight seemed to be taken out of him.

"You know I can't give you morphine now. You're too weak. I can give you vicodin."

"Vicodin is barely going to make a dent in what I'm feeling," he said.

"Let's try," she said.

She called for a nurse to bring 1200 mg of vicodin.

"Make it 2000," he whimpered.

She sighed.

"Okay. . . 2000."

"Thank you."

"Meanwhile, do you want me to call your girlfriend?" she said, gently.

He closed his eyes.

"I don't want to see her."

"This wasn't her fault. It was my idea. I was the one who suggested the surgery."

"But you're not my medical proxy. She is."

"True but. . ."

"She betrayed me."

"She was given an impossible decision."

"Why stop at my leg then?" he said, angrily. "I mean, if you're going to run roughshod over my comatose body, why not go for broke? Any other parts missing? Do I still have a spleen? A kidney?"

He grabbed, crudely, between his legs.

"At least she left her favorite part intact," he said.

"Dr. House, she was afraid you were going to die," Cuddy said, calmly. "We all were."

"Why do you care. . .?"

"I. . .care about all my patients."

He gave her a curious look.

"And why do you keep calling me Dr. House? What, we're not friends anymore? Because back at Michigan I seem to recall you calling me all sorts of names—well, moaning them to be more precise."

Then he noticed the nurse, who had just entered the room with the Vicodin and gave her a wink.

Cuddy felt herself turn crimson. He had kept such a poker face during this whole ordeal she assumed hehad forgotten her. (Of course, she had recognized _him_ right away sitting there in the exam room with his doting Southern girlfriend. . . O_f all the clinics in all the hospitals in all of the world_. . .)

So the bastard remembered, after all.

He was a pig. But he was a pig in excruciating and possibly permanent pain, so she let it go.

"What should I call you then?" she said.

"Call me Gimpy," he said. "Or Sir Limps a Lot. Or that Miserable Bastard With the Stone-Hearted Bitch for a Girlfriend."

She shook her head, exasperated. She handed him the pills, which he swallowed greedily.

"Those should kick in soon," she said, watching him.

"An angel of mercy," he said, closing his eyes.

"Try to get some sleep, Dr. House," she said.

"Call me House," he said, groggily.

"In that case, call me Cuddy."  
#####

The next day, she heard yelling coming from House's room and then the sound of Stacy, crying.

Finally, Stacy emerged from his hospital room, her eyes rimmed with red.

"You okay?" Cuddy said, compassionately.

"He hates me."

"He doesn't hate you," Cuddy said. "He's upset. He'll come around, realize that you did what you did because you love him."

"He said he's going to be in permanent pain," Stacy said, staring at House's hospital room, still in a bit of shock. "He's not, is he? He's not going to be in permanent pain."

Cuddy gulped a bit.

"He might be," she admitted. "I'm sorry. We always knew this was a possibility."

"It's all my fault," Stacy said, putting her hand to her head.

"No. . .it's his fault. Amputation would've the safest, least painful method. His solution bordered on suicide. The compromise was the only reasonable option under the circumstances. You were given an impossible choice."

"And now every time his leg hurts, he's going to think of how I betrayed him."

Cuddy looked at her.

"Just give him time," she said.

#####

"How are you feeling, House?" Cuddy said, a few hours later.

"Like death warmed over," he said.

"Well, at least you're warm," she said.

He gave her a slightly impressed look. No one had dared to give him shit since the surgery.

"Cute," he said.

"I heard you and Stacy fighting earlier," Cuddy said.

"Yeah. She likes Pepsi. I like Coke," House said breezily. "It's a thing."

"She loves you very much," Cuddy said.

"Tell that to my mangled leg," House said.

She studied his face for a second.

"You should give her a break," she said.

"And you should stay out of it," he said testily.

She nodded.

"Okay, well, let me know if you need anything" she said, backing out the door.

"Wait!" he said, a tiny bit of desperation creeping into his voice.

"What?"

"Do you have to go so soon? It hurts less when I have someone to talk to."

It was amazing how a guy who could be so strident and abrasive one minute could suddenly sound like a needy little boy.

She looked her watch. 2:30. She had a board meeting at 3.

"I can stay for a few minutes," she said.

She sat down in the chair next to the bed.

"I'm sorry. I'm a terrible host," House joked. "I can offer you some left over apple sauce. And these strained peas. . . at least I think they were peas. It's really anyone's guess."

"I'm good," she said.

He folded his arms and gave her a knowing smile.

"What's that look for?" she said.

"You once told me that you were going to run your own hospital some day," he said.

"I _did_?" she said.

"Yup. You said—and I quote—'I'll run my own hospital by the time I'm 40.' . . you seem way ahead of schedule. What are you, 29?"

"32," she said, not making eye contact. "And I'm not running this place yet. I'm just the VP of Administration."

"It's just a matter of time," he said. "Pretty impressive, Cuddy."

"What about you?" she said. "I read that article about you in the New England Journal of Medicine.'"

"Oh that? That was nothing," he said, with false modesty.

"Yeah right," she said. The she smiled: "We did okay for ourselves."

"Not bad, considering how many distractions there were in med school."

And he gave her a tiny once-over.

"I . . . heard you went onto Hopkins after Michigan?" she said.

"You've been keeping pretty close tabs on me, huh?" he said, with a grin.

"It was. . . in the article," she said, hoping it was true.

"Right," he said, smirking.

"So how long have you and Stacy been dating?" Cuddy asked.

"I don't want to talk about her," he said. Then he groaned a bit.

She popped up.

"Your leg?" she said.

"No, my gallbladder," he said, through grit teeth. "Yes, my leg."

"When did you last take the vicodin?"

"Two hours ago. I need more."

"It's too soon," Cuddy said.

"I need it. Everything hurts!"

"Shhhh," she said.

She put her hand on his forehead.

It was sweaty.

"I'm going to take your temperature," she said.

"No," he said, closing his eyes. "Just keep your hand there. It feels nice."

#####

The next day, she was back in his room.

"Care to join me for a cocktail?" he said, pulling a flask out from under the covers.

Her mouth dropped open.

"Where did you get that?"

"I bribed an orderly," he said.

"Which one? Cause he's so fired."

"He was short. Or, uh, maybe tall. He had acne. Or maybe clear skin. I can't say for sure, I'm too drunk."

"House, you shouldn't be drinking."

"There is absolutely no medical reason why I can't have a little nip to get me through the rough spots."

"It's a known fact that people in chronic pain are at risk to become addicts."

He gave her a somewhat defiant look.

"Aha! So you admit I'm going to be in pain for the rest of my life!"

_Shit._

"House, I didn't mean that. It's still too soon. . ."

"I'll drink to that. . ." he said, raising the flask. But right before he was about to take a swig, she snatched it from him.

"Not in my hospital, House."

"First a giant chunk of my leg and now my flask," he said. "Anything else you want to take from me?"

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Yeah, you and me both," he muttered.

She hesitated, sighed, and handed him back the flask.

"But please be discreet about it, okay?"

He smiled beatifically.

"You're the bestest hospital administrator ever, you know that?"

#####

Stacy was in his room more often then she wasn't, but Cuddy sensed a continued coolness between them. He still hadn't forgiven her. And the more concerned Stacy was—the more she hovered, fussed over him, asked about his pain—the more distant he got.

Cuddy had to admit she had felt more than a twinge of jealousy toward Stacy when she had first laid eyes on her: So _this_ is the woman who gets to spend her days with the brilliant Gregory House? Now she pitied her, too—all of that exhilarating genius came wrapped in a very dark package.

A few days after House's surgery, Cuddy heard the sound of a crash coming from his room and then she saw orderlies rushing through the door.

She followed, concerned. House was on the floor, his head in his hands.

"What happened?" she said, aghast.

"He tried to walk!" one of the orderlies explained.

They scooped him up off the floor and put him back on the bed. He didn't resist. He was subdued. He sat on the bed, his back curled forward, his arms hugging his knees.

When they were alone, Cuddy said to him, "What did you do that for?"

"I wanted to test my leg," he said, quietly.

"House, it's nowhere near ready for you to put all your weight on it yet."

"I'm never going to be able to walk again," he said. His voice was shaking. He was on the verge of tears.

"Yes, you are," she said, firmly. He would always have a limp—but he would walk. She was sure of that.

She sat on the edge of the bed and put her arm around his coiled figure.

"It's okay," she said, rubbing his back. "You're going to be okay."

"Cuddy," he said pathetically.

"Yeah House?"

"I'm a cripple."

#####

He left the hospital two days later in a wheelchair. Not the standard wheelchair that all patients were issued to protect the hospital from liability, but one that he actually needed—for now at least. He would start his rehab in a week.

She felt sad and a little sick watching him. He was a healthy young man in the prime of his life. She remembered at Michigan how athletic he had been. Not just at sports—although he excelled at those. But all of his movements—the way he sat in a chair, ate his lunch, even tied his shoelaces—had a kind of physical grace to them. It was part of his sex appeal. And now he was, as he so indelicately put it, a cripple.

Cuddy watched them leave, from the landing. House looked grim. Stacy looked relieved that she could possibly start to put this ordeal behind her.

Right before they got to the door, House glanced up and noticed her. He gave a little half-hearted wave. She waved back.

Several weeks later, Cuddy was sitting in her office when a throat cleared loudly.

She looked up. It was House, dressed in his "civvies" as he would later call them—a rumpled blue Oxford shirt, jeans, and Nikes—and walking, with a cane.

"Look at you!" she said, inordinately pleased.

He gave a little courtly bow.

"What are you doing here?" she said.

"I missed the strained peas," he cracked. Then he said, "Actually, I'm here for my final PT session. They gave me this cane as a parting gift."

"We are nothing if not generous here at Princeton Plainsboro," she said.

"Of course, it's not the first time you've given me hard wood," he said, raising his eyebrows.

She shook her head, ignored him.

"I actually meant, what are you doing here—in my office?"

"Oh that," he said, suddenly bashful. "I was hoping that maybe I could buy you lunch? To thank you."

"To thank me for cutting out a chunk of your leg?"

"No, to thank you for . . . being so nice to me. I know I was a pain in the ass as a patient."

"You?" she said, ironically.

She glanced at her in-box, which was in danger of toppling over.

"Hang on one second," she said. "Let me juggle some things."

She called her assistant: "Move my 2 pm to 3, sign off on those inventory orders I told you about, tell Dr. Howard the answer is a no—actually, make it _hell_ _no_—on his request to hire an executive assistant, and don't forget to send that bottle of Veuve Cliquot to Sanford Wells." Her assistant must've said something because she nodded, scribbled down some notes on a legal pad. "Yes, routine maintenance on the MRI and evaluation forms for the nurses, right. Plus the cable's out in the doctor's lounge. Got it. Okay, talk to you later, thanks."

Then she looked up, clapped her hands together like a coach before the big game. "Let's do this," she said.

She had been so distracted by her tasks that she was surprised to see House smiling at her. God, she had forgotten how much she used to love the way he looked at her—amused, impressed, and deeply turned on all at the same time. (_He's got a girlfriend, Lisa. He's. Got. A. Girlfriend.)_

"What?" she asked, trying not to let her voice sound too flirty.

"You're just. . .quite a woman," he said.

She shrugged.

"All in a day's work," she said.

"I see that," he said. Then he looked her up and down. Took note of her low-cut blouse and hip-hugging skirt.

"Love the outfit, Cuddy," he said.

####

At lunch, they talked about lots of things—how hard it was for Cuddy to make it as a female administrator ("you have to work twice as hard to earn half the respect" she stated), about a mutual friends from Michigan ("He had a breakdown and is completely off the grid," Cuddy said. "I think he's weaving baskets or something on a commune in Boulder"), about the difficulties House had keeping a job ("I don't do well with authority," he shrugged.)

And, then they talked a little bit about Stacy.

"It's been. . .strained, to say the least," House admitted.

"Have you forgiven her yet?" Cuddy asked.

"I'm . . .working on it," House said. "I don't want to blame her. But every time I wake up in the middle of the night in excruciating pain and I see her just blissfully lying there—I get angry."

"She didn't give you the infarction, House," Cuddy said.

"No, but she agreed to cut me open when I was unconscious," House said.

"At _my_ suggestion," Cuddy reminded him again.

"You were being a doctor," House said. He pulled a bottle of pills out of his pocket and gulped down two. "Doctors look at symptoms not people."

"You were more than a constellation of symptoms to me, House," she said, ignoring the pills. (Although her fears that he might become dependant on them now seemed founded.)

"I shouldn't have been," House said pointedly. "Making things personal clouds your medical judgment."

"But you've made things personal . . . with Stacy."

"She's my girlfriend, not my doctor And she was disloyal."

"I hope you don't consider me disloyal," Cuddy said.

"No," House said. "When you treated me, we didn't have a relationship. I mean. . .we had a thing once and then we didn't. And now we have this . . . new thing."

They were quiet for a second, both contemplating what this "new thing" was.

"I promise not to suggest any medical procedures for you ever again," she said, smiling a bit.

"Like I'd let you or this hospital anywhere near me," he cracked.

She laughed.

"You're a jerk, you know that?"

"So I've been told," he said, proudly.

They both beamed at each other—until their smiles felt too intimate and they looked away at the same time.

"Well, I . . hope you can find it in your heart to forgive her," Cuddy said, sheepishly.

House shrugged, studied his plate.

"We'll see," he said.

####

A few days later, he was back in her office, coincidentally around lunchtime.

Cuddy tried to hide her happiness about seeing him.

"Now what? A craving for PPTH applesauce?" she said.

"Actually, I'm here to right a wrong. You cut a chunk out of my leg and I buy _you_ lunch? Clearly the karmic scales must be balanced."

"So you've come to invite yourself to a free lunch," Cuddy said, chuckling.

"It's the least you can do," House said.

"Well, when you put it like that. . ."

They were doing that smile thing again—when Dr. Howard came in, wielding a file.

"Look at this guy's lungs," he said, ignoring House and handing the file to Cuddy. "I mean now we've got coughing up blood, kidney failure, and lung involvement. I'm completely baffled. I'm thinking of sending this over to Carr at the Mayo Clinic."

"May I?" House said, reaching for the file.

Cuddy handed it to him.

Howard frowned.

"Who the hell's he?" he said, annoyed.

"That's Dr. Gregory House," Cuddy said.

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" Howard said.

"Have you considered Goodpasture's?" House said, studying the patient's scan.

Cuddy looked at him, impressed. "That fits," she said.

Howard yanked the scan out of House's hand. "There's no way it's. . ." Then he hesitated, squinted at the photo. "I suppose it's possible. I'll run some tests."

"You do that," House said. "But I'd get the guy on corticosteroids and immunosuppressants as soon as possible. Otherwise, you're going to be running tests on a corpse."

Howard made a kind of grunting sound and left the office in a huff.

"He's sweet," House said.

But Cuddy was staring at him.

"What?" he said.

"How did you just do that?"

"I looked at the scan. I read his symptoms. It was this thing they call doctorin'."

"I've had 10 different doctors look at that case. And you figured it out in—what—15 seconds?"

"I . . . see things, make connections that other people don't," House said. "It's a gift."

Cuddy shook her head.

"I'll say," she said.

"Stop worshipping me and get out your wallet, woman!" he said.

#####

Another great lunch, where conversation flowed freely and there were a few too many times where they made eye contact that felt . . sexual.

And in the elevator, he continued to look at her, in that carnivorous way of his.

"I can't get over the fact that you're sexier now than you were in college," he said finally. And in one compulsive motion, he slammed her up against the elevator wall and began kissing her.

In moments, they were all lips and tongues and wandering hands tugging at clothing and searching for bare skin. Until the elevator door opened with ding and they parted, guiltily.

He limped after her.

"I'm sorry," he said, once they got back to her office. "I don't know what just came over me. I mean, I do know. But I . . ."

"We. . ." she admitted.

"_We_ shouldn't have. . ."

". . .done that," she finished.

They stared each other, both still breathing a bit heavily.

"That can never happen again," Cuddy said, firmly.

"No," House said. "Definitely not."

"You have a girlfriend."

"Right," House said. "Exactly. A girlfriend."

"And even though it felt really good. . ."  
"_So_ good. . ." he agreed.

"Not all things that feel good are, in fact, good."  
"I concur."

She picked up a pen, for no apparent reason.

He scratched his head, fiddled with his cane.

"So um, we're in agreement then," he said.

"Total," she said. The top button of her blouse was undone. They both noticed it. She buttoned it hastily.

"So, thanks for lunch, Cuddy."

"Anytime."

And he limped out.

######

A few days later she had another surprise visitor in her office: Stacy.

"It's like Grand Central Station in here," Cuddy muttered under her breath.

"What?" Stacy said.

"Nevermind. Inside joke," Cuddy said. "What's up?"

"Can I unload on you?" Stacy said, slumping into the chair across from Cuddy's desk. "I feel like you're the only one who really understands what I'm going through."

"Is this about House?" Cuddy said cautiously.

"Things have gone from bad to worse," Stacy said.

"I'm so sorry Stacy," Cuddy said, feeling like a hypocrite.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say he was. . .having an affair."

Cuddy gulped.

"An affair?" she said, feeling her face get hot.

"He's been disappearing for long stretches at a time. He seems to have no sexual interest in me anymore. . ."

"Lots of time after someone has had surgery. . ." Cuddy said.

"No, this is different. It's not about his leg—believe me. I just get the strong sense he's been thinking about another woman when he's with me."

"I'm sure you're just imaging things," Cuddy said, feeling horrible. She was the worst human being on the planet. "He'll snap out of it. I know he will."

"I hope so, Lisa," Stacy said. "Because I don't know how much more of this I can take."

#####

It was pouring out—the rain beating loudly against the side of the house—which may have been why she didn't hear the knock on the door at first.

It was past 10 pm. Her heart sped up until she looked through the peephole.

"House, what are you doing here?" she said, swinging the door open. "You're drenched!"

She led him inside—ran to the bathroom to get him a towel.

"Stacy kicked me out," he said, taking the towel and wiping his face and hair with it.

"What happened?" Cuddy said.

"I don't know. We've been fighting—all the time. And then she accused me of having feelings for another woman and I. . ."—he looked at her —"I couldn't deny it."

He stood there—his hair now tangled from the towel, his wet tee-shirt molded to his torso, his eyes almost superhumanly blue.

She felt her equilibrium beginning to get thrown off.

"I think I'm in love with you," he said, blinking at her.

"You've been through a lot—through a trauma," she said, trying to be reasonable. "It makes sense that you would latch onto me—the woman who comforted you, who held you when you were weak. That's not love."

"I want you," he said, stepping toward her. "I've always wanted you. Since Michigan."

She closed her eyes. Of course, she wanted him too. Possibly loved him, as well.

"House. . . we can't."

He stepped toward her. Every last nerve ending in her body was on fire.

"Why not?" he said.

He reached down and pulled a lock of hair off her shoulder. He bent and kissed the base of her neck.

"Because of Stacy," Cuddy said, feeling weak in the knees.

"We're through," he said huskily. "We've both known that for a long time. We've been trying to cling to something that . . . no longer exists."

His mouth moved from her neck to her cleavage. He began planting soft kisses on the fleshy part of her breasts—and with that, she came undone.

She grabbed him by the hair and pulled him toward her. They were kissing now, passionately, roughly—banging into furniture as they made their way to the bedroom. A lamp got knocked over and unplugged. A bookshelf shook, in danger of toppling, but stayed intact. They landed with a near thud on the bed, ripping at each other's clothing. In moments, her hand was on his cock—my God it was a marvelous thing— and he had managed to slide a few fingers between her legs. His fingers pushed against her.

"Oh my God," he moaned, when he felt how wet she was.

Then she was on top of him and he was grabbing her hips and maneuvering her—and they both gasped, in unison, when he was inside her. It was not just the build up of two months of sexual anticipation—it was 12 years of wanting each other, fantasizing about each other, craving each other.

And she was riding him, kissing him, her breasts in his face, in his mouth, his hands on her ass—and she felt waves of bliss wash over her. And her gasps became stuttered and high pitched until she let out a strange soprano sound, half squeal, half wail, barely recognizable as her own voice.

"Fuuuuuck," House said, catching his breath.

"Wow," she said.

They lay there, side by side, both coated in sweat, their chests heaving in unison.

"You know how you fantasize about something for 12 years and then it's not as good as you remember it?" House said, eyeing her.

"Yeah?" she said, cocking a brow, almost too sated to be annoyed.

"This was nothing like that," he cracked. And she swatted him.

"You are fucking perfect," he said to her. "Do you know that?"

"You're not so bad yourself," she said, sighing languorously.

He wrapped an arm around her.

"So what's your policy about sleeping with employees?" he asked, nibbling her ear.

That caught her off guard. She propped her head up on her elbow and looked at him.

"What? Why?"

"Because I could really use a job."

THE END 

"


End file.
